A Typical Dream of a Mad Fanfic Writer
by SillySocrates
Summary: What is there to summarize?


**A Typical Dream of the Mad Fanfic Writer**

**by SillySocrates**

AN: To compensate for the mammoth clusters of horrible pieces on this website, I fancied I should construct an Internet piece of my own. Though incoherent it may seem please do not take this work as a true demonstration of my ability; this is only a parody of nonsensical fanfictions that have little to no structure in execution, and are wholly serious about it. P.S., would somebody please send this to a YouTuber named Aliento? He's been inactive for some time and I think he'd enjoy this material. Enjoy, my sexies.

**Part Fish: The Day Noodle Goblins Ate My Pee-Pee**

As I speak I am under the drowse, huddled beneath a warm cotton sheath trying so desperately to get warm as the shadows drowning the ashen walls crowd around me. A stream of arctic breath rushes in to violate the room with its frigid nature; seems I left my window open, though I wish not to close it ̶ three and a half cups of Nyquil does well to render your muscles inert. Bodily tenacity is but an lone ant at war with a legion of elephants against the groggy euphoria brought forth by the bitter liquid, and it doesn't particularly help that you're a schizophrenic who just missed his daily dose of lithium either. Quite frankly the little blue spider that just gave me the finger crawling on the ceiling is giving me a cosmic erection. Aforementioned stiffy is not a metaphor; my mastodonic pork-pole literally shot up from my trousers and the head graced the Andromeda system. They better use me in a Viagra advertisement! Suddenly it went all soft and floppy upon penetrating the stratosphere, abruptly drooping down at light speed from the vast expanse of stars to my carpet of warthog pubes and just hanging out of my boxers like a tail, but designed for the manufacture of babies. I then promptly took my sausage link into my palm and used the limp member as a whip for a minute or two or twenty, and furthermore slapped it against my bedroom walls made of poison ivy ̶ a terrible idea, I digress. And thus I fell asleep with unbearably itchy and puffy genitals. Lovely, yes? That was until I actually began to dream.

I found myself in the middle of some warped, archaic square. Hills were the shoulders and stone streets were the veins, winding here and there around dwelling complexes crude and ornate; around massive pillars and great temples and beautiful statures exhibiting a prowess in build and sculpt. Enthralled was I at this sight, only identifiable as the revered center of Rome, though my ecstasy was interrupted by some disembodied voice from afar which spoke:

"Lo! Who is this before me? What bizarre instrument covers his eyes? Caesar, be that you? Change me; I made poopy in my robe."

The gentleman before me was clad in a silken cloak of blue shade and a laurel nestled behind his ears for decoration. His mane was well-trimmed, face stern and folded yet remained to yield a degree of youth; furthermore characterized by a hooked nose and eyes that shone clear as Rubicon waters. This was Virgil, poet of old, and accompanying him were literary masters from his time and beyond. Grabbing his plump ravioli rump was Dante Alighieri, his sexy Florentine butt buddy in the butt, and feeling Dante's was Homer, the definition of _boring as shit_ when it comes to classical literature. To Homer's left was Poe, who was stark-naked save for a loincloth of his own design, which was fashioned from a whole raven. Peeking under the bird was Lovecraft, eager to see what interstellar horrors lie in the realms of Poe's penis; and motorboating Lovecraft's greasy Anglo-Saxon sperm vats was William FAKEspeare, the most overrated thing in the history of things to be rated.

"Virgil, my delicious linguini," said Dante, "do you like it when I touch your happy rod beneath your squishy smelly robe?"

"Damn right I do, Dante-poo," retorted the Roman. "I will make shiny piss on your faggy Florentine face now."

And so the excrement flowed, and Virgil and Dante saw that it was good.

"Your sexual organ is quite small, God," said Lovecraft. "I fancy it to be some sort of physiological deformation to have an organ that small. Have you seen a physician on the matter? It is nay bigger than the head of a cigar."  
"Shut up and suck it forevermore, forevermore."

And so he did.

"Thou art one sexy Ess Oh Bee, you Greek rapscallion. I swoon over thine manly features of man-nature of men. For you are a man. Men make me man in the manhole… Men."

"Fleesh gagga blagh ook you English manwhore."

And so they did.

Sex with man-people make my pet rhino sad, so he shoved his horn in my tight bum to make himself feel better.

"Such a lovely place to keep my nose. Smells like roses. Mmmm."

Afterwards I went into a jet-liner and jumped off the jet-liner. I took off my pants and my underwear and my under-underwear and curled up into a fetal position. Wings of birds tickle my shute of the fecal matter. Ass-first into the Seattle Space Needle I went.

_And then the noodle goblins came._


End file.
